


We Could Crash Together (I Come Alive)

by synchronized_strangers



Series: Bad Intentions [4]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Caves & Spelunking, Cross-Generation Relationship, F/M, Lydia has questions, Mention of Laura, Original Mythology, Peter has answers, Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-22
Updated: 2016-08-27
Packaged: 2017-11-26 12:49:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/650698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/synchronized_strangers/pseuds/synchronized_strangers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“This is ridiculous. I’m not <em>five</em>.”</p><p>“No? I’m fairly certain I know five year olds who can infer from the phrase, ‘Dress warm and wear boots,’ that they’re going to be walking outdoors.” Sullen silence is her only response so he goes on. “If you’d prefer to walk, say the word.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Eien_Ni](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eien_Ni/gifts).



“No.”

“Lydia—”

“No. Absolutely not. I’m not going in there in these shoes.”

“I told you to wear boots.”

“You didn’t tell me to wear  _crappy_  ones.”

“ _Lydia._ ”

“No!”

“Fine.” He takes no small amount of satisfaction from the stuttered little squeak she lets out when he picks her up. Partly, it’s spite. Partly it’s the way her breath hitches in her chest.

Mostly, though, it’s the way her nails feel biting into the skin of his neck because that… that’s  _good_.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” she hisses, heat rising off her skin where it’s flushed with rage or embarrassment. Both, maybe.

“Contingency plan,” he answers, shifting her weight. She isn’t particularly heavy. He just likes the feel of her under his hands, the press of her hip against belly. The way her arm sits across his shoulder, soft and warm, like it was shaped to fit there.

“This is ridiculous. I’m not  _five_.”

“No? I’m fairly certain I know five year olds who can infer from the phrase, ‘Dress warm and wear boots,’ that they’re going to be walking outdoors.” Sullen silence is her only response so he goes on. “If you’d prefer to walk, say the word.”

“I’d prefer not to be carried.”  _By you_ , she doesn’t say, but then, she doesn’t have to. She knows he’ll hear it anyway.

“Is it your proximity to me that you find distressing or your reaction to it?”

She blushes so hot it feels like a brand through his jacket. His grip on her tightens a little, reflexively and there’s a heavy moment where he’s keenly aware of how close her lips are to his, how if he just turned his head he could press them together, slot his mouth over hers and drop to his knees to put her against the ground…

If her skin is hot enough to brand how hot would that mouth be, bruised and spit slick on his cock?

It’s as much to give himself a moment as it is to give her an out that he doesn’t force an answer. It wouldn’t serve anything to push her down into the leaves until she’s pushing up against him.

Anything other than his lust, actually. If you can’t be honest with yourself.

The bitterness is gone when she finally settles on, “You didn’t say where we were going.”

Peter stifles the urge to be a smart ass. With a little effort, he gentles his tone, although he can’t hide the rasp behind it, when he answers, “You wanted to know about the cave.”

“It’s here?” Her eyes latch onto him with an almost predatory gleam, embarrassment and proximity apparently disregarded in the face of ambition. If he’d been charmed by her flush, he’s incensed by her pale, ruthless glow and something inside him lights up with pride.

He won’t even have to teach her priorities. She has them straight already.

Well. Save one. Soon, he reminds himself. Soon enough.

When he grins at her, she grins back. “You didn’t really think the Argent’s settled here to watch a small, well-established pack, did you?”

She shifts of her own volition, sitting a little higher in his grip, the muscles in her back a tense line under his hand. “Can’t you go any faster?”

“All right,” and the glee in his tone must set off the warning bells for her, because those little hands turn to claws against his back. With the practice half a dozen nieces and nephews afforded him, he drops her legs, slides his arm out from behind her and lets her own grip pull her around to his back. Those legs clamp onto his waist viciously, his hands clasping under her ass behind his back as he adds, “Hold on.”

“Peter—!” If he were human, the pressure of her arms clutching at his neck would have choked him out. As it is, by the time they get close he’s seeing a little gray in the corners of his vision but it’s worth it for the way she’s plastered herself against him. For the hot breath against the shell of his ear and the scent of her hair rubbed into his.

So quickly he can’t suppress it, the memory of Julie half sobbing against his chest springs up and Peter hears himself murmuring, “I always did like a little pain,” against the top of her head.

She’d slotted there effortlessly, perfectly. Like the gods had shaped her to him when she was made. That day she’d crushed his trachea when she pinned him against a tree and for a few agonizing minutes Peter had strongly suspected he was going to die. It was hard to imagine coming back from the gasping, hazy place where every breath was an agony. The pain itself isn’t what he remembers, though. It’s the way his body shook, every piece of him quivering in an effort to just  _breathe_.

It had been Laura who did what needed to be done. Little Laura, fanged and furred, who cut open her palm and then clawed out his throat. Laura who saved him. Laura, whom he killed.

“I’m going to make you pay for that,” Lydia hisses, wriggling against him ferociously.

“It’s almost like you think that’s going to make me  _want_  to put you down.” He drops her anyway, because he’s polite, and pretends he isn’t half-hard in his jeans.

She looks away primly, tossing her hair. Haughty little thing. Makes him want to muss her up.

“It’s in here?”

“That’s right.”

There's a hint of uncertainty in her eyes as she takes in the small space, the dark. He can see her start to take in the claustrophobic weight of the earth ahead. She knows what it feels like now, being buried. He gave her that.

He surprises himself when slides his hand under her hair against the nape of her neck. Surprises her, too, if the way she startles is any indication, but it's nothing compared to the white hot flash when she doesn't pull away.

He says, "Last chance," because he's a bit of a traditionalist and the devil always offers a final out.

His reward is the piece of her soul that looks back at him when she shakes her head, that pale throat swallowing down what might have been the words, "Take me home." And how beautiful she looks signing away her life.

She shivers a little at the way his fingers trail across her skin, confusion and fear and want warring as he traces the path from her shoulder to her hand, delicate fabric hiding softer skin, until he has her hand palm up between them. Her eyes on his face and her breath caught in that throat when he favors her with a smile.

Even better when she barks a laugh as he presses the flashlight into her grip. She glances up at him from under her lashes as she flicks it on, all deft fingers and mischief. "What do I owe you if I lose this?"

And that... well, he's not ashamed to admit that for a moment there, he loses his train of thought completely, images of skin and lips and tears swimming up from the depths of his dreams.

"Hold on to it," he manages, even as he sincerely hopes she doesn't.


	2. Chapter 2

Earth, stone, mildew, moss, wet, cold, still, stale. These are the smells Peter focuses on to stop himself from ravaging Lydia Martin.

To _try_ to stop himself, really. His success is turning out to be relative, which is to say marginally effective. He hasn’t done anything rash. Yet.

It’s possible he’s contemplating several ill-advised courses of action, though, even as she’s contemplating the drawings, eyes roving hungrily over his family’s secrets. Once, Peter might’ve been subject to harsh punishment for bringing someone here without the permission of his Alpha. Killed, even, if the offense was great enough.

For Lydia, his sister would’ve made him run the gauntlet. It was her favorite punishment.

Derek probably doesn’t even remember where this place is. Realizing that makes his chest ache a little, resonates in a way that feels like regret, but it’s not something he can change, and it’s definitely not something he can use.

Like so many other things in what’s left of his life, he lets it go.

She doesn’t jump when Peter starts speaking, just glances at him over her shoulder, eyes bright and fingers deft as she traces the face of a woman who’s been dead for centuries.

He wonders if she hasn’t been waiting for his voice the whole time.

“Her name was Huata, according to our history. A great leader, Alpha of her pack while she lived. Her sister, Taipa,” Peter cups his hand around Lydia’s to aim the flashlight towards the proper illustration, “was human, and she was immune.”

He can feel Lydia’s eyes on him but he doesn’t allow himself to look. Instead he stares at the woman on the wall, her body bowed in supplication but her face upturned to the moon.

“Huata and Taipa were twins, one wolf and one human. Born on different sides of the moon, we say, but despite it they were close. They loved each other very much.” He still hasn’t dropped her hand and moves the beam back to Huata. “One day the Alpha of another pack came to visit and decided he wanted Huata for a mate. She refused. Her reasons vary depending on who’s telling the story. My mother used to say she was a good judge of character.”

Lydia laughs and Peter can feel it in his chest.

“But whatever her reason, Huata refused and he, in a fit of pique, gave her sister the bite.” He shifts their hands to focus on a bloody tableau. Taipa collapsed on the ground, her stomach red with blood, her sister with arms outstretched, and a red eyed Alpha standing above. “Taipa never wanted to be a wolf, never desired the bite, and so the sisters went to the den to pray.

“You’ve read about the den? Then you know that the den is where the sacred rituals were kept for wolf kind. Where they went to honor the moon. Taipa and Huata prayed to the moon to save her from becoming a wolf. They prayed for two weeks without food or rest; prayed for the moon to spare Taipa from a fate she never wanted until the moon, moved by their love, stopped the change.”

“Immunity,” Lydia whispers.

“Immunity,” he agrees. “The moon stopped Taipa from changing, but she warned that this was permanent. Taipa could not ever take the bite now, or change, or be anything other than what she was. She had rejected that life and everything that came with it.

“When the Alpha came back to claim Taipa for his pack, they killed him together.” The last illustration shows Taipa and Huata standing over the Alpha holding his heart between them. Huata’s eyes are red.

Lydia turns her head incrementally, her hair tickling his chin and her scent assailing him anew. “What happened to them?” She’s standing now with her back only a few inches from his chest, their hands the only point of direct contact but the promise of it hovering in the small space between.

Peter tilts his head for a better view of her throat, leans in to nose at her hair. “They ruled together over both packs, Alphas in their own right.”

“Is this why the Hales settled here? This cave?” She’s whispering again, realizing how close they’re standing for the first time. Goosebumps break out on her skin and her scent spikes with fear. But not just fear. There’s want there, too, dark and heady. He pauses, savoring the moment. The vulnerability of her and how she doesn’t retreat.

His brave girl.

It takes all his self control to release her hand and step away, but he does. Certain kinds of lies and certain kinds of truths, he reminds himself. This has to be her choice. He can’t force it. He can’t pin her down in the dirt and _take_. Not now. Not yet. And is it his imagination or does she look disappointed?

He looks at Taipa on the wall and says, “This cave is part of our history. It has to be protected. Take your time. I’ll be outside.” _Because if I stay in this cave smelling you I can't be held responsible for my actions._ If his voice is a touch hoarse, well.

The fresh air is sharp in his lungs, crisp and clean. Autumn air shading into winter. Decay from the forest floor, old musk from the deer trail nearby. A rabbit to the east freezes sensing a predator.

Peter can’t help but grin. If it only knew. The temptation to shift is strong, to lope off through the trees and let instinct guide him. To catch the rabbit and crack the bones for the marrow. It’s exhausting, sometimes, being a man. Being a wolf is easier. Much less complex.

It’s nearly an hour later when she emerges strangely subdued, her mind clearly turning something over. Fitting new information in with old, maybe. Connecting the dots.

He leaves her to her thoughts, helping her pick her way along the trail. Now that she’s seen what she came to see, there’s no haste.

It suits him just fine. The curiously peaceful air between them gives him hope. His plans won’t succeed unless she’s a willing participant. She’ll have to trust him. The irony of it does not escape him.

She pauses before getting in the car. The thousand yard stare is gone and she’s very present when she meets his gaze. “Did you know I was immune when you bit me?”

This is a turning point. He can feel the future poised delicately on this fulcrum and knows that he’s come to the crux of this before he’s ready. Their foundation may not be strong enough to withstand this truth.

His only choice -- his only _chance_ \-- is to trust her.

“No.” Such a little word for such a heavy moment. Her face is nearly blank, inscrutable. “I only knew I wanted you.” He lets the longing seep into his voice, doesn’t have to fake the sincerity. “It wasn’t until later that I knew what you were, after I was dead.”

She looks away, her heart pumping slow and heavy and for one awful moment he thinks he’s lost her. Too much truth too soon and his mind is racing as she walks around the car. Can this be salvaged if he’s overplayed his hand?

But she stops in front of him, her face still inscrutable. She holds up his flashlight and for a moment he’s fairly certain he gapes at her like an idiot because she tosses it into the woods. The only sound is the rattle of branches and the sound of hard plastic cracking against a rock.

Her voice is a husky mess and her eyes are dark with old hurts, but she smiles at him and the knowledge blazes through him _that he’s won_. There’s still so much work ahead of him but this, this is a certainty. His gamble paid off. She's _his_.

“I seem to have lost your flashlig--”

He cuts her off with a kiss, his mouth slotting over hers with bruising force, his arms wrapped around her waist lifting her up, pulling her flush. And her arms winding around his neck, fingers tangling in his hair pulling hard at the roots. A violent, desperate sort of kiss that calls to the wild heart of him.

He’s chosen wisely in Lydia Martin. He always did like a little pain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone who's interested in the mythology I used names from the Miwok language because the Miwok tribes are based in the Northern Californian area. In my mythology, wolves have coexisted with humans for a very long time and werewolf mythology is separate from human mythology. My immunity myth isn't based on any existing Miwok myth (that I'm aware of) and isn't representative of their culture, but is based on fictional Miwok werewolves.

**Author's Note:**

> This is turning out to be bigger than I thought. I'm not sure how large this universe is going to get, guys, but it's definitely still expanding.
> 
> As always, you can find me on [tumblr](http://synchronized-strangers.tumblr.com). :)


End file.
